Pumpkin shortage? What pumpkin shortage? Why, you can’t navigate our Clifton, New Jersey backyard without tripping over a pumpkin as big, solid, and immovable as our pit bull, Coco.

But for commercial pumpkin farmers, 2011 will be remembered for one calamity after another. Rain delayed planting for more than two weeks. Still more rain promoted the growth of phytophthora, a fugus as devastating as it is difficult to pronounce. Then Hurricane Irene delivered the coup de grâce by flooding the fields of the northeastern United States and Canada. Scarcity drove the price of pumpkins through the roof.

I can't explain our embarrassing bounty. We hadn't planted so much as a single pumpkin seed. Our pumpkins couldn't have come from our compost, because we hadn't composted any pumpkins.

Mighty Coco patrolling the pumpkin patch

My best speculation is that the fatal seed was deposited in our vegetable bed by an errant bird or small mammal. Perhaps it had so enjoyed its meal of last year's jack o'lantern that it left it as a tip that went uncollected until the soil warmed up enough for it to germinate.

My wife and I noticed its first tiny leaves poking through the mulch in early July. We recognized it as some sort of Curcubita–a large genus that includes squashes, gourds, cucumbers–and pumpkins.

In the garden, Marilyn is the bad cop–what she doesn't thin or prune back mercilessly, she tosses into the compost without a backward glance. I am the good garden cop–which may explain why my radishes never amount to more than a sad handful of red and white strings.

But we were both curious to see what our little foundling would develop into. Like proud parents, we watched it coil its first tentative tendril around the trellis we had placed there for the convenience of our cucumbers. Next, it entwined itself around a nearby tomato cage.

Every day, the main vine grew perceptibly thicker and longer. By August, it had traversed the entire backyard, and was covered with a myriad of intensely yellow flowers, each bigger than a man's hand.

We watched in rapt fascination as it throttled the life out of our climbing cucumber–a murder made even more monstrous because botanically, the victim was its own close relative. It took a heavy toll on the heirloom tomatoes. In the end, even the okra was overwhelmed.

Dale Carnegie famously said, “When fate hands you a lemon, make lemonade.” And the pumpkin is a fruit with a juicy history.

The pumpkin is believed to have originated in Mexico. Cultivated in North and Mesoamerica since pre-Columbian times, it was on the menu at the first Thanksgiving. It is the largest member of the Cucurbitaceae family–the current world record belongs to a 1,810.5 colossus grown in 2010 by Chris Stevens of Wisconsin

Almost every part of the plant is edible. Its leaves can be boiled or sautéed like spinach or chard. Its flowers can be dipped in batter and fried like zucchini blossoms. Its roasted seeds are a favorite snack.

The flesh is low in calories, and an excellent source of vitamins, minerals and fiber. In addition to being superrich in beta-carotene, it’s an outstanding supplier of lutein and zeaxanthin, carotenoids that afford protection against cataracts and age-related macular degeneration.

Compounds found in pumpkins lower blood sugar in diabetics, and may reduce, or even one day eliminate the need to inject insulin. In animal studies, pumpkin extracts seem to protect and even regenerate insulin-producing cells in the pancreas.

Now, nobody likes a party pooper. But all these health benefits fly out the window when you combine pumpkin with a ton of sugar, then bake it in a pie crust that is from one-third to one-half hydrogenated fat. Fortunately, pumpkins can be turned into a wide range of dishes that are no less delectable for being healthful. When made my way, Hungarian pumpkin soup only tastes tiltott. In France, pompion is often thinly sliced, layered in a dish with sautéed onions, and gratinéed. In Mexico, you will often find calabaza combined with white beans in a casserole.

Mexican pumpkin and white bean casserole

1 pound bag of white kidney beans (cannellini/alubias)

or lima beans (butterbeans/pallares)

2 tablespoons olive or sunflower oil

1 large onion, diced

6 cloves garlic, sliced

2 stalks celery, diced

dried pequin or other whole, dried chile peppers, to taste

1 teaspoon whole cumin seed

1 heaping tablespoon sweet paprika, smoked if available

4 – 5 pound pumpkin, skinned, seeded, and cut into 1” cubes

(2 – 2-1/2 pounds net weight)

kosher or sea salt to taste

fresh cilantro, chopped (optional)

pumpkin seeds (pepitas) hulled, roasted (optional)

Inspect the beans for small stones, etc. Cover them over by 2 inches with cold water, and let them soak overnight. You can also use the quick soaking method of covering them with cold water, bringing them to a boil, then allowing them to sit for an hour, covered, before proceeding.

In a big soup pot, sauté the onions, garlic, celery, hot peppers and cumin seeds in the oil. When they have begun to soften, add the paprika, and taking care not to burn it, continue cooking another minute or two.

Add the soaked beans, and water sufficient to cover them over by 1 inch. Bring to a boil, cover loosely, lower the heat, and simmer about an hour, or until done.

Skin and seed the pumpkin as illustrated, and cut into 1” cubes. Add to the beans, and if it seems necessary, a little more water.

Cover and cook an additional 20 minutes, or until the pumpkin is tender. Add salt to taste. Garnish with the optional cilantro and pepitas, and bring to the table. Serve with whole wheat tortillas.

Hungarian Pumpkin Soup

When I have the time–and the pumpkins–I enjoy making my own fresh pumpkin purée. Nevertheless, the canned product is so good that many experienced cooks actually prefer it to fresh.

Be careful that you don’t accidentally pick up a can of pumpkin pie filling. There should be only one ingredient listed on the can: pumpkin. There shouldn’t be any salt, sugar, spices or preservatives.

In central European cooking, roux is often replaced by flour mixed with sour cream. In this recipe, I have replaced the sour cream with plain low fat or fat-free Greek yogurt. My taste buds don’t feel deprived in the least, and I like to think that my arteries will thank me one day. As always, read the ingredients, and avoid brands that add xanthan, guar gum, gelatin, or other thickeners, emulsifiers and stabilizers.

1 medium onion, about 1 cup, minced

2 bay leaves

2 tablespoons sunflower, peanut or grape seed oil

2 quarts cold water

½ teaspoon black pepper

29-ounce can of pumpkin purée

1 cup Greek yogurt, low fat or fat free

¼ cup (4 tablespoons) flour, whole wheat preferred

6-ounce can tomato juice

kosher or sea salt to taste

In a 6 quart or larger soup pot, sauté the onion and bay leaves in the oil until golden. Add the water and pepper, bring to a boil, and simmer, partially covered, for 20 minutes.

Add the pumpkin purée, whisking until incorporated. Combine the yogurt and flour in a bowl, blending until you have a smooth paste. Add a couple of tablespoons at a time to the simmering soup, whisking constantly to avoid lumps, or you’ll have spaetzle. When all the flour/yogurt mixture has been smoothly incorporated, add the tomato juice. If desired, add salt to taste.

If you have the time, simmer a while longer. It’s even better the next day. Serve with rye bread.

Scientists Don't Know Jack

In the British Isles, the legend of Jack O’Lantern goes back at least as far as the Celtic Church, and is told in many variations. The common thread gives us Jack, a rascally lad who strikes a bargain with the devil. And for a little while, Jack actually seems to hold the upper hand.

But as any student of folkloristics could have warned him, Old Scratch always finds a way to come out on top. Jack winds up alma non grata both in heaven and hell, doomed to walk the earth forever with only his lantern to light the way.

Accordingly, his name became associated with the eerie lights we sometimes see moving about in swamps and bogs. In these parts, this phenomenon is commonly called Will O’ the Wisp. In other venues, it's called fairy lights or corpse candles.

Killjoy scientists would have us believe that the ghostly glow is merely methane from decomposing mobsters and other organic detritus reacting with atmospheric oxygen. From time to time, we’d glimpse it from Route S3, my big brother and I holding our noses as my father gunned the family Fleetwood past the pig farms of old Secaucus.

Though the Celtic practice of carving scary faces in oversize turnips goes back to pagan times, carving a representation of Jack’s likeness into a pumpkin is a surprisingly recent innovation. The earliest literary reference is in the “The Great Carbuncle,” from the 1837 collection of short stories “Twice Told Tales” by every schoolchild's favorite author, Nathaniel Hawthorne. It wasn’t until 1866, however, that the Jack O’Lantern pumpkin became associated with Halloween.

When European folk artists immigrated to the United States and saw their first pumpkin, they must have felt the way Michelangelo did when he saw his first hunk of Carrara marble. Think I’m exaggerating? The next time fate hands you a turnip, just try carving Dale Carnegie’s face in it.